[There was no room for those things when it came to being with Minho, like this. He gave what he got and there was something in Minho, something safe and secure enough but also confident that, somehow, just made it easy for Thomas to go with the flow.
His head was so lost in what they were doing that he sometimes forgot where his fingers were digging, the gasps Minho made the only reminder that he should move his fingers somewhere else, which he did, most of the time, hand slowly lowering down his back.
He swallowed when that hand covered his throat and then dug into his shoulder. It crossed his mind that maybe he should take his shirt off-- If they kept this up, he could very well end up without a shirt to tell the story and, really, he couldn't exactly afford that, right now.
Yet, the thought (his third) about moving a little back in order to remove the thing off was quickly erased, mind instead focusing on the sounds Minho was making. They made his breathing hitch, slowly driving him completely insane, for lack of a better way to describe it. It was like his senses were more alive than ever. Every touch sent shivers all over his body, every sound intensively more obscene, from Minho's moans to the sloppy sounds of the way their tongues came together, the way theirs lips touched lips and skin. He could taste him in ways he hadn't before, not near as consciously as he could now; salty and burnt and addicting. And his scent was taking over him in ways that Thomas didn't even know was possible, breathing him in with every gasp of air, wanting more of it, too, surrounding him, and--
Wherever he was going with that, it all came to radio silence again, once he felt Minho's lips on his neck and throat. His breath halted, at first, and then he let out a soft moan, fingers digging into and dragging on Minho's skin, both up his back and down his hair and neck. He wanted more, and he even tilted his head a little, for that, but then...]
Wait, [He whispered, taking two deep breaths against Minho's hair before moving only slightly back.] Wait. [He repeated, eyes opening, to look at him. His own cheeks were beginning to flush with color, lips swollen and parted.] I should...
[Get this off.
But it was better doing than saying, so Thomas moved his hands to his own jacket, which he clumsily tried to shrug off, before going for his shirt, after.
no subject
His head was so lost in what they were doing that he sometimes forgot where his fingers were digging, the gasps Minho made the only reminder that he should move his fingers somewhere else, which he did, most of the time, hand slowly lowering down his back.
He swallowed when that hand covered his throat and then dug into his shoulder. It crossed his mind that maybe he should take his shirt off-- If they kept this up, he could very well end up without a shirt to tell the story and, really, he couldn't exactly afford that, right now.
Yet, the thought (his third) about moving a little back in order to remove the thing off was quickly erased, mind instead focusing on the sounds Minho was making. They made his breathing hitch, slowly driving him completely insane, for lack of a better way to describe it. It was like his senses were more alive than ever. Every touch sent shivers all over his body, every sound intensively more obscene, from Minho's moans to the sloppy sounds of the way their tongues came together, the way theirs lips touched lips and skin. He could taste him in ways he hadn't before, not near as consciously as he could now; salty and burnt and addicting. And his scent was taking over him in ways that Thomas didn't even know was possible, breathing him in with every gasp of air, wanting more of it, too, surrounding him, and--
Wherever he was going with that, it all came to radio silence again, once he felt Minho's lips on his neck and throat. His breath halted, at first, and then he let out a soft moan, fingers digging into and dragging on Minho's skin, both up his back and down his hair and neck. He wanted more, and he even tilted his head a little, for that, but then...]
Wait, [He whispered, taking two deep breaths against Minho's hair before moving only slightly back.] Wait. [He repeated, eyes opening, to look at him. His own cheeks were beginning to flush with color, lips swollen and parted.] I should...
[Get this off.
But it was better doing than saying, so Thomas moved his hands to his own jacket, which he clumsily tried to shrug off, before going for his shirt, after.
It was better this way, right?]